


Depth of Field

by Elizabeth Watson-Holmes (edye327)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, F/F, F/M, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Photography, Photography AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-09
Packaged: 2018-05-25 13:09:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6196303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edye327/pseuds/Elizabeth%20Watson-Holmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It all begins when burgeoning photographer John Watson's plans for an exhibit at the coveted Annenberg are disrupted by none other than the famed Sherlock Holmes, who after receiving three mysterious business cards and instructions to close down John's exhibit announces that he will be claiming 60% of the gallery space. A day after the opening, all of Sherlock's prints go missing while John's remain intact. Little do they know that they're both being targeted by three past members of a disbanded family consortium - the Morstan's, Moriarty's, and Magnussen's - who, years later, are seeking revenge. Amongst it all, of course, are John and Sherlock, whose friendship slowly but surely develops over time. Eventually, Sherlock will have to come clean to John both about the business cards and his history with drugs, but if he puts his confession off too long, disaster may very well strike far sooner than he believes.</p><p>Major character death down the line, but all of our good guys are a-okay. References to drugs and alcohol. Possibly a few other warnings which I will apply as those chapters go up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sherlock turns the business cards over and runs a finger over the peculiar and seemingly arbitrary initials handwritten on the back of each one.
> 
> Business card #1: J.M., in a spiky black scrawl.
> 
> Business card #2: A.G.R.A., cursive, in purple pen. The writer pressed too hard on this one and the resulting bumps can be felt on the other side of the card.
> 
> Business card #3: C.A.M., silver to match the name of the studio, written in slanted, angular print so lightly that it's barely perceptible.
> 
> If he were any half sane man, Sherlock would report the suspicious behavior to the police, they would catch the culprits, and he would wash his hands of the affair. But he isn't, and won't, and so when a fourth card is dropped off right before John Watson's show is set to start construction that reads Annenberg, 06.07, 11:55pm, terminate J.W.'s exhibit, he does just that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. I've been on and off, gradually working on this fic for literal years. My plan was to write the entire thing, then post it, but I'm dying to see what you guys think of the idea, so I'm going to post it now.
> 
> I had to find and replace the bad language, which is a shame because it takes away some of the emphasis and realistic aspects of the characters' interactions and dialogue, but I want to rate this G so it will be available to all!
> 
> As a reminder, there WILL be character death in future chapters, but if you could handle HLV, you can handle this. There will also be references to drugs, past drug usage, drug addiction, and drug withdrawal. Harry will make cameos, although I have a bit too much going on to feature all of the people and conflicts I'd originally planned on. However, there will be mentions of alcohol as well.

**VERY LENGTHY BACKGROUND INFORMATION:**  Scroll down if you don't want to read this!

Stop bath is a chemical bath used in black and white film photography which stops the print from continuing to develop. Basically, if you don’t have stop bath, the chemicals that develop the print won’t wash off or neutralize, and the image will continue developing, and you don’t want that.

Here I’ve copied and pasted a description of the Annenberg Space for Photography from Wikipedia, to spare you all the Google search:

The Annenberg Space for Photography, which opened in March 2009, is a cultural destination dedicated to exhibiting both digital and print photography in an intimate environment. The Space features state-of-the-art, high-definition digital technology as well as traditional prints by some of the world's most renowned photographers and a selection of emerging photographic talents as well. The Space showcases roughly 3-4 rotating exhibits per year.

Gallery Kayafas is a real gallery located in Boston (my mom worked for the curator and has had shows there before!), as is Three Stones, which is located in Concord, MA.

When Sherlock lists off his credentials, they’re pretty self explanatory, but here’s a blurb on the Lucie awards; basically, they’re a pretty big deal in the photography world, and you can assume that Sherlock has participated in all of the events in it.

It’s an annual gala that brings together photographers worldwide and showcase finalists/winners of the International Photography Awards, which presents over $22,500 in cash prizes and distinct titles: International Photographer of the Year, Discovery of the Year, Deeper Perspective Photographer of the Year, and Moving Image Photographer of the Year.

Statues are presented to photographers in six different categories for support (book publisher, print advertising, fashion layout, editor, curator, magazine). There are exhibitions and artist talks in New York City leading up to the Lucies, including the annual International Photography Awards Best of Show which shows 45 winning images from each calendar year's competition and selected by a different curator each year.

Pellier Noir is a simple lit photography style primarily for social events (like proms, black tie affairs, conventions, etc.) and it’s basically where mobile studios are set up with a solid background and people have their pictures taken in front of it. If you think about it, it’s probably a pretty good money maker, but obviously not what John ultimately wants to do with his photography career.

To those photographers out there who might make the same comment that one of my lovely beta’s did, wondering how John managed to make a print before realizing the stop bath was gone because you have to mix fresh chemicals each time: the assumption here is that he's using indicator stop bath, so he thought it was going to be usable for longer and then it stopped being effective and he had none left to replace it with. This is based on my personal experience in black and white photo class at school, and based on conversations with other photo students, this is done differently. Either way, please suspend your beliefs a bit here.

* * *

  _May 3_

If Sherlock Holmes hadn’t stolen the stop bath, none of this would be a problem.

However, he has, and as a result John Watson finds himself in a terrible mood when his agent bursts through the door and shouts, “The things I do for you!”

“What the hell are you – you’re supposed to be in SoCal,” John splutters, standing there with an 8 x 10 suspended in a pair of tongs.

“Which is precisely the point!” Greg Lestrade, the best of the best both at his job and at losing his temper, kicks a stack of (thankfully empty) portfolio boxes beneath one of the enlarger stations. “Sherlock Holmes – yes, _the_ Sherlock Holmes – decided it’d be a brilliant idea to go to Annenberg and shove himself right next to your installation. I don’t even know _how_ , because you’ve been scheduled forever and they closed for a literal _month_ to set up your exhibit, but he managed it because he's Sherlock Holmes, and god, I’m so sorry, I know this meant a lot –"

“Yeah, well, he stole the goddamn stop bath,” John snaps, although his priorities may be somewhat off the mark.

Greg stares at him for a full thirty seconds, during which John dumps the ruined print in the trash and starts aggressively stacking multigrade filters, before shaking his head and continuing, “So I was halfway there when Wallis calls me up and announces that you’re going to have to cut half your exhibition because Sherlock decided last minute to join the party and that I'd better head back home because they're shut down for the next three weeks to set up his show. Oh, and the opening's been moved to June 6th. And now I’m here to break the bad news to you, which I’ve done, and go yell at Sherlock, which is still on my to-do list. He hasn’t left yet, has he?”

“Well, he ruined five 11 x 14s, so I hope to god he doesn’t leave before I can give him a piece of my mind.” John usually doesn't bother the famed photographer despite the fact that they occasionally end up working next door to one another when Sherlock isn't at some opening or artist’s talk or conference or interview. Photography is therapeutic for John, and he loves nothing more than the worshipful silence of the darkroom, watching images bloom in plastic tubs and fresh prints bob ethereally in the wash. The studio is the one place he _doesn't_ have to socialize, where he can actually think straight. Plus, he hasn't heard great things about Sherlock, and he knows better than to interrupt a notoriously difficult artist in the creative process.

Greg gives a resigned sigh. “I’ll go check –”

“No need.” Both men jump in the orange glow of the darkroom’s safelights. “Irene Adler. Sherlock’s agent.”

John has seen photos of Irene, generally lurking behind Sherlock at openings and the like, but nothing had quite prepared him for meeting her in person, particularly when his agent looks about prepared to strangle her client. From what little he can see, she is tall, striking, and currently fixing an imperious gaze on him.

“I would like to resolve the Annenberg issue now, if you don’t mind.”

Greg scowls. “Listen here –”

She raises a hand. “I’ve spoken with Sherlock, and he has made up his mind. There is no talking him out of participating in this exhibition.”

John scoffs. “Great.”

“However, he _is_ willing to make a deal with you.”

“With me? A _deal?_ ”

“He will allow a forty-sixty split when it comes to gallery space.”

“How generous,” John mutters, then takes a moment to mull over this frankly horrible offer. He learned early on as a struggling freelance photographer that something is always better than nothing, and it’s true that from a publicity standpoint even showing next to someone like Sherlock Holmes could benefit him in the long run. “So that’s as good as it’s gonna get?”

“I'm afraid so.” She folds her hands in front of her and waits.

John looks to his agent. “Greg?”

Greg gives a helpless shrug. “We might as well.”

“So... yes, then,” John tells Irene, “you can tell him we’ve got a deal.”

“Excellent.” Irene is already whipping out her cell phone. “Later, gentlemen.”

“Hang on,” John says, trying to look more intimidating than he probably is. “You tell Sherlock to give me back my stop bath.”

She sighs. “You must understand that he is a busy man –”

“I. Want. My. Stop. Bath. Back.” Honestly, in all of this, is it _really_ too much to ask of Sherlock to possibly not add insult to the already unjust injury of having his one potential breakthrough exhibition stolen – forty-sixty split, his _ass_ – and return a $7 plastic bottle of chemicals?

“If we're lucky, he will agree to reimburse it.” Irene pauses, then adds loftily, “It’s only stop bath.”

She’s right, but John already resents Sherlock, so he doesn’t bother responding.

* * *

 “Hey, Molly!” John catches up to Molly Hooper, another regular at the studio, en route to the parking lot. “Sherlock hasn’t left yet, has he?”

She gives him a nervous look. “Um... no.”

“Okay, cool. Thanks.”

“He’s in a rather bad mood...”

“That makes two of us.”

Now that they’re walking together, it does seem a bit rude to make an immediate U-turn, so John continues on his way. He can double back later. Molly seems nice, if reserved, and she’s worked alongside Sherlock for years, so she might have something to say on the topic.

“John Watson,” he adds as an afterthought.

She gives a cursory smile, if it can be called that, and speeds up.

“I know you probably know who I am, but I thought I’d properly introduce myself.”

Molly halts so abruptly that John almost walks into a tree. “Listen. If you want information on Sherlock, I’m not going to give it to you. I heard about Annenberg and I know you're probably annoyed, I would be too, but –”

“What? No, I’m not trying to use you for your connection to him or – or anything like that.” Not anymore, at least. “I felt like I should introduce myself because we haven’t, you know. Met. Before. But I've seen your work and you're at the darkroom a lot and I think we had back-to-back exhibits at Kayafas last year.”

“I know who you are. Of course I do. I mean, everyone does."

John cocks his head. Everyone? Since when? "Oh. Okay."

"Sherlock's said good things about your photography, actually," she says, as if she really doesn't want to admit it. She hesitates. "He liked Distant Places. I think he would've bought a print, but..."

“I know he hates me, you don’t need to tell me that. No idea why, to be honest.” John gives a short bark of laughter with the intention of easing the tension, but finds that it has a paradoxical effect and plunges them both further into awkwardness.

“Molly!” The voice that makes every curator go weak at the knees, but that, if John's sources are to be believed, turns abrasive and demanding in the blink of an eye, can only belong to one person. John swivels around. “Molly, I need you to go out and locate more film developer.”

“But every store’s closed today.”

Sherlock sweeps past John, suit jacket flapping as he does so and giving off the unmistakable scent of chemicals that John fell in love with the first time he stepped foot in the darkroom. “Figure it out. I need it by seven o’clock.”

“I don’t think I can –”

“Is that lipstick?”

She blushes. Aaaaand there's the charm. John rolls his eyes. “Yes, I – I thought it might – do you like it?”

Sherlock gives a dismissive flick of his fingers and says nothing.

Molly waits for a few uncomfortable seconds before faltering, “Well. I’m... I’ll go find your developer.” Her ponytail bobs as she starts to hurry to her car. John, suddenly feeling sorry for her, follows.

“Molly, hey.”

“Yes?”

“D’you have a piece of paper on you?”

“Um, probably.” She rummages around in her bag, then produces a charcoal pencil stub and half a sheet of watercolor paper. “Why?”

John scribbles down an address. “My friend’s girlfriend runs a small multimedia shop. It’s a long shot, but she might stock developer, and I know she’s open today.”

“Really? Thank you so much,” she says gratefully, tucking it away and beaming at him.

“No problem. Good luck.”

She waves at him and walks the rest of the distance to her sedan. He watches as she pulls out, and has nearly forgotten about Sherlock until the photographer speaks up. “John Watson.”

He turns around slowly. “Yes. What do you want, other than the rest of my darkroom?”

“I wish to speak with you.”

“I really don’t, but go ahead.”

“Very well. I am aware that news of my involvement with the Annenberg Space for Photography has reached you. Your agent was quite clear on that front.”

“Is this an apology?”

Sherlock frowns. “No.”

“So the point of talking to me is...?”

“If you would let me actually speak without interrupting and scowling in my direction – you’re going to get wrinkles, incidentally, if you keep it up – you might find an answer.”

John smooths out his face and assumes a neutral expression. “Go on then.”

“I would like to propose a deal.”

“The forty-sixty thing, Irene already told me.”

“Are you normally this impatient? You and Garrett must have an absolutely marvelous time together.”

“Garrett?”

“Your agent.”

“It’s Greg, and we do, because he doesn’t put up with monstrosities like you stealing my stop bath.”

“This isn’t about stop bath.”

“Look, you don’t get it, do you? This is...” John runs a hand through his hair. “Okay. It’s just, this exhibit was really important to me and you wouldn’t understand but I –"

Sherlock is giving him an intense, searching look that’s making John supremely uncomfortable. “You’re troubled.”

Did he seriously just...? “I’m sorry, what? You think I’m – that’s –"

“You know I’m right.”

John stares at him incredulously. “I don’t know a thing about you, actually, so no, I don’t think you’re right.”

“John, I am a seven-time International Photography Award recipient. I’ve been honored at the Lucie awards since 2005 and hosted numerous galas internationally in my time. Believe me when I say that I thoroughly comprehend the power of and motives behind photography.”

“It’s not that. It’s not about _issues_ , it’s just that it’s the _Annenberg,_ and you don’t have any right to jump in and try to take my spot.” Maybe it’s a little bit about issues, but damned if John is going to tell Sherlock Holmes anything of the sort.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “Mm.”

Never has a syllable been more obnoxious. “I have to go, so...”

Sherlock steps gracefully out of the way. “I wouldn't take it upon myself to stop you.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

John rolls his eyes again. His phone vibrates before he can concoct an appropriately sarcastic response and a glance at the message preview – _harry relapsed. idk what to do, but please come home soon. clara_ – has him groaning and reaching for his keys. “Thanks for your input,” he snaps, hitting the unlock button on the remote repeatedly. “It’s really – this day is just...” Shaking his head and trying not to dread what he might find upon walking through his door, he starts towards the car.

Sherlock is looking at him keenly again. “Is this about your alcoholic brother?”

“No.” Yes. Brother?

Sherlock smirks. “Yes, it is.”

John is _so_ done. He scrubs a hand over his face, then shakes his head and says wearily, “Right. Thank you for your... help. I’ll talk to you later.” Or not. Definitely not.

Sherlock’s mouth is quirking at the corner, and if John didn’t know better he would classify the other man’s expression as _amused_. “We will talk later. Tomorrow.”

“No, we won’t.”

“You said so yourself.”

“Force of habit. We absolutely will not talk, unless you want to give me back my installation.”

“We can compromise.”

“You already took away sixty percent of my Annenberg exhibit.”

Something that could potentially be regret crosses Sherlock’s face. “You must know that this is not a personal attack. It is an unfortunate necessity and I – I do apologize for the inconvenience.”

“Goodbye, Sherlock.” John spins around on his heel and stalks determinedly to his car, not waiting to see what Sherlock says in response.

* * *

John pulls into the driveway and gets out of the car, taking a deep breath. Clara’s Volvo is crooked, as though she parked in a panic and ran to the door.

Which is probably what happened.

With another sigh, he steps into the house.

“John,” Clara says in relief as he drops his coat on the table and goes to sit in the living room.

“Is she okay?”

“Now, yeah. I found vodka bottles in the closet.”

“Which one?”

“The one in the attic you never use.”

“Where is she?”

“She’s asleep now. Sorry, I got pretty worked up with her and it probably didn’t help.”

John wraps his arm around Clara and squeezes. “It’s fine. Anyone would’ve. It wasn’t too bad, this time?” _She didn’t go berserk and crash an SUV into a telephone pole?_

Clara knows what he’s thinking and shakes her head. “No. She called me, babbling about random stuff and acting really stupid, so I came by because I didn’t know, but I hoped it wasn’t this... and she was drunk. Not passed-out drunk, but close enough. I got really upset and she started yelling at me and said some stuff about leaving me and...” Her hands are shaking slightly as she gets up to pour John a glass of water and he feels a stab of pity. Clara loves his sister more than anything; to have breakup threats constantly shot her way can’t be fun. “Anyway. It almost got physical, but I managed to – well, not calm her down. But she stopped, anyway.”

“It’s okay,” John says quickly. The last thing anyone needs is a worked up Clara, because Clara is their rock. At some point in the past three years, Harry, Clara, and John have formed some sort of family, with Greg often hovering in the periphery as a shoulder to cry on and convenient ride. A dysfunctional family, but a family nonetheless. “Look. It could be worse, right? And – and we can still look into other options.” It sounds feeble, even to his ears.

Clara sits down next to him. “Like what? She’ll sign herself out of the hospital, she’ll go through the motions of AA and then drop it. We’ve done this a million times before. I don’t like to be defeatist, but...” She looks at John helplessly.

“I don’t know, something will work out.”

“Okay,” she says dubiously, then adds, “thank you.”

“Anytime.”

“So now we wait.”

“Basically. She’ll be out for at least six hours, maybe even ten. God, I just.”

Clara nods, understanding.

John sits there for a moment, trying to muster up the motivation to do anything but drive back to the darkroom and hole himself up there for the rest of his life. “Do you want dinner?”

“Not hungry. I thought we’d do takeout later.”

“Okay,” John agrees, glad that he doesn’t have to move yet. He pauses. Clara’s chewing anxiously on her lip, so he decides that a rant might be a welcome distraction. “Well, today sucked.”

She straightens up, looking grateful for the subject change. “Oh no, why?”

“You know Sherlock Holmes? Never mind, you wouldn’t, you’re not a photographer. Well. He’s like... one of the biggest photographers in the business, he’s won tons of awards and he develops in the same darkroom as me sometimes. Anyway. Sally Donovan – she was one of the managers back when I did Pellier Noir – said she’d worked with him before and he’s a nightmare. He can be really charming and all, but apparently the minute the press is gone or the contract is signed he’s demanding and arrogant and presumptuous. Her words.”

Clara winces. “That bad?”

“Yeah. So today Greg comes in and announces that Sherlock decided to plop himself right next to me at Annenberg. I’m going to have to cut down my body of work so there’s a forty-sixty split, and I don’t even _know_ what he’s planning on showing, but that’s like – that’s the worst thing that could ever happen, that’s like...” He grasps for a comparison. Clara’s in the arts, and while she has a modest job working at a local theatre doing musicals and voice lessons, he knows she wishes her career had gone further. “That’s like landing the lead on Broadway and someone else coming in and saying they’re going to take over halfway through the show a week before opening night.”

“I’m sorry. You can’t have Greg talk to his agent?”

“She talked to _us_. Told us about the ‘deal’ and left. _And_ Sherlock stole my stop bath.”

Clara looks at him in confusion. “I don’t know what that...?”

“Never mind. It’s the principle of the thing. He’s just – Sally’s right, he’s so presumptuous, he thinks he’s some big celebrity and he _is_ , but still.”

“You feel like he’s rubbing it in your face.”

Clara can be very perceptive, and it would be extremely annoying if he wasn’t so fond of her. “Yeah,” John admits ruefully. “I guess... yeah. You know I’ve been wanting to get to a place like Annenberg for forever. Not for the money or the publicity so much as just the achievement. Photography means more to me than just pointing and clicking. I mean, it’s the reason I left home, got out of there, and quite frankly, it’s probably the reason I’m here today. And then it’s like this photographer, who already _has_ all the fame he could ever want, just decides to take that away from me. I dunno. It just... stings.”

“I’m so sorry.”

John shrugs. “Don’t be.” Then, doing his best to put a brave face on, he pushes himself off the couch and reaches for the landline. “Takeout?”

* * *

Sherlock gets home at ten o’clock, only vaguely registering the fact that he’s hungry and probably dehydrated. Grabbing a water bottle from the chrome mini-fridge by his front door, because it's significantly easier than throwing together a meal, he deposits his bag in the study and makes his way to his room. After changing into a silk robe, he sits down in bed with his favorite Moleskine and taps a pen thoughtfully on his leg. Today was an odd one, between being yelled at by Lestrade and dealing with Molly and running out of developer and having an actual conversation with John. John, whose reaction is fascinating. Sherlock could have predicted annoyance, but this... the Annenberg means a lot to John. So much so that Sherlock almost – _almost_ – feels a semblance of guilt. He knows his initial assessment was correct; John has emotional ties to this art. It isn't just about success. It's about the photography itself.

Sherlock knows this feeling better than anyone.

His phone chimes next to him: Irene.

_Are you at home?_

Yes. SH

_Mycroft's looking for you, so could you please unblock him?_

No. The block function is possibly the most useful and praiseworthy component of the modern cell phone. SH

_Sherlock!_

Goodnight, Irene. SH

Thank you. SH

_For what?_

Though I was ultimately forced to speak with John, your efforts to interface with him are appreciated. SH

_The point was never to let you get out of apologizing._

I did apologize. SH

_If you say so. I still think you're wrong in doing this. It’s only stirring up drama, and Greg could potentially go to the press with this. And we both know you don’t need something like the Annenberg any more than Johnny Depp needs another paycheck._

I've told you: there are reasons. Trust me. SH

_Lucky for you I do. Goodnight._

He shuts off his phone and thinks for a minute, then reaches into his bedside table’s drawer and extracts the business cards that had materialised at the front door of his SoHo loft. They're standard issue, thin but sturdy card stock, some minimalist sans serif font spelling out the name of a studio or gallery. None of which, according to the Internet and number of people he's asked, actually exist.

Business card #1: _East Wind Galleries,_  starkly set against the glossy white background.

Business card #2: _darling assassins_ , bookended with pastel pink hearts.

Business card #3: _appledore studios_ , a silver apple taking the place of each ‘o’.

He's contemplated enlisting Mycroft's help. His brother is a bit of a half business, half political typhoon, with uncanny knowledge and access to information so comprehensive that it's probably illegal. Then again, no Holmes man has ever had success playing by the rules.

However, Mycroft is also the most obnoxious, smug, and infuriatingly overbearing person Sherlock had ever had the misfortune to come across, and therefore the idea of deigning to ask for help is immediately vetoed.

Sherlock turns the business cards over and runs a finger over the peculiar and seemingly arbitrary initials handwritten on the back of each one.

Business card #1: _J.M._ , in a spiky black scrawl.

Business card #2: _A.G.R.A._ , cursive, in purple pen. The writer pressed too hard on this one and the resulting bumps can be felt on the other side of the card.

Business card #3: _C.A.M._ , silver to match the name of the studio, written in slanted, angular print so lightly that it's barely perceptible.

If he were any half sane man, Sherlock would report the suspicious behavior to the police, they would catch the culprits, and he would wash his hands of the affair. But he isn't, and won't, and so when a fourth card is dropped off right before John Watson's show is set to start construction that reads _Annenberg, 06.07, 11:55pm, terminate J.W.'s exhibit_ , he does just that.

* * *

_May 4_

Harry’s still asleep the following morning. John debates waking her up, but he and Greg are set to meet at 10 o’clock, so he sheepishly asks Clara if she can come by and check on Harry around noon.

The Starbucks isn’t too crowded, given that it’s a weekday morning and most people with respectable office jobs are already laboring away. John grabs a black coffee and sits down opposite Greg, who says, “So. I talked to Wallis.” He pauses. “Well, I sort of yelled at her.”

“And?”

“And Irene’s right. Sherlock is adamant about this.”

John isn’t even surprised at this point. “Thought so.”

Greg takes a bite of his breakfast sandwich and says around a mouthful, “That said, I think there are a few things we can probably do.”

“Sherlock Holmes is known for being unstoppable, though.”

“Yeah, and so are you! Getting there, anyway. I mean, you’ve done some pretty impressive spreads in the past few years, and people are throwing around your name. Nobody’s going to top Sherlock anytime soon, but don’t give yourself so little credit.”

“That’s true,” John concedes. “It doesn’t feel like it, though.” _God,_ does it not feel like it.

“It never feels like it,” Greg points out. He extracts a dog-eared notebook and taps on the open page. “Anyway, I was thinking last night and it’s not much, but if we’re more aggressive on social media and outreach to local galleries, it could work in our favor. You still have prints from Distant Places?” John nods. “It’s a long shot, but we could try going to a place like Three Stones in Concord and see if they’d take one or two of them last minute. I’m familiar with curators in the Boston area, I’ve worked at least adjacent to them before, so... it would be a lot of finagling but worth it if it’ll up your support. And Clara’s sort of in the arts, she might even hang up some 8 x 10s for you at the theatre. I know it’s way less than ideal and Sherlock is absolutely _horrible_ for doing this, but we have to, you know. Make the most of the delay, I guess.”

“Way less than ideal” is an understatement. Distant Places is an old project, but it did get a positive reception and even made its way onto a book cover, so playing it safe might be the last resort. “Sure,” says John. “Thanks. I don’t... I really, _really_ hate this, but you’re right. I can’t do any more than I’m already doing.”

Greg reaches for his laptop. “Okay. I’ll get things started on Twitter and Facebook if you can do Tumblr and Instagram.”

“Alright.”

“And John?” John looks up. “I’m sorry.”

“Thanks,” John says for what feels like the umpteenth time in the past 24 hours, and seriously means it.

* * *

Sherlock invites Irene over to his apartment the next day. Rather, she announces that she’ll be there in ten minutes and does just that, which is really to be expected at this point.

“Before you say anything, I still fully intend to go through with the Annenberg,” Sherlock asserts.

“I know,” she says, “and that’s not what this is about.”

Sherlock begrudgingly allows her to take a seat at the island, where she helps herself to an apple and then gestures for him to sit down opposite her.

“I had a conversation with Mycroft last night.”

“Lord help us all,” says Sherlock, rolling his eyes.

“He seems to think that there’s something behind this Annenberg business.”

“There isn’t.” Leave it to Mycroft to stick his nose where it doesn't, never did, and never remotely will belong.

“Sherlock,” she says very carefully, placing the apple at her elbow and folding her hands on the table, “if there is anything going on, you would tell me, correct?”

 _If there is anything going on._ Sherlock frowns, then realizes exactly where his agent and, in all likelihood, his brother are coming from. Better that than uncovering the truth, which they would no doubt immediately ruin with concern and disregard for boundaries, but still tiresome. “It doesn’t have to do with the drugs,” he says exasperatedly.

A look of relief passes over Irene’s face and her shoulders slump. “Thank god.”

This is ridiculous. Sherlock blows out a breath that generally encompasses the sum of his feelings towards this entire situation and adds, “Do you honestly believe that after all my recent successes, after the fact that I’ve spent the past six months flying across the entire world doing interviews and speaking at prestigious events, I would go back to _that?”_

“I didn’t think so,” Irene points out. “Mycroft did.”

Abhorrent. “He caused you to reconsider your conviction that I am quite recovered.”

“Maybe,” she admits, “but it’s a non-issue now. Right?”

Sherlock gives a curt nod. “Is that all?”

“No. I think we still need to talk about it.”

Not this again. Sherlock contemplates getting up and leaving, but is reasonably certain that Irene would follow him out and corner him in an alleyway somewhere. “What is there to talk about?”

“I won’t pretend to understand your rationale for doing this. However. You must understand that this is a great letdown for John.”

“So I’ve been reliably informed.”

“Precisely. This was to be his big break, you realize.”

“I _know,”_ and he tries, he really does, not to sound petulant. That ship has apparently sailed, however, because Irene gives him a stern look, switching immediately into no-nonsense-or-I-will-personally-slap-you-across-the-cheekbones mode. In other words, she means business, and he yields.

“We need to formulate a course of action that will minimize the amount of attention your little addition to the exhibition will purloin. Something that will make you as inconspicuous as possible.”

No matter what her plan dictates, Sherlock knows that this is highly unlikely to succeed. He could have had the Annenberg anytime he wanted in the first place; the fact that the great Sherlock Holmes is gracing their gallery will undoubtedly make headlines. “Even if I were so inclined, which I am not because I stand by the belief that it is the responsibility of a photographer to make a name for himself independent of coddling or accommodations... it will be ineffective.”

“Please don’t be so pretentious.”

“I am merely realistic.”

Irene gets up and tosses the apple core in the sink, running the dish disposal as they both collect their thoughts. “I will speak with Wallis,” she says when she turns back around. “If they can keep this on the q.t., it may allow John to gain the publicity he deserves. You know curators. They view you as unattainable. As long as they don’t hear that you’ve inserted yourself back into the relative mainstream of the business until June 6th, they will focus on John.”

“John is perfectly capable on his own,” Sherlock maintains. “I will not flaunt my success, nor have I ever” – “Debatable,” mutters Irene – “but neither will I deliberately hide away.”

“I’m not asking you to hide away, Sherlock. I am requesting that we take measures not to entirely overturn John’s career.”

“You speak as though this will cause his downfall. It may stall his burgeoning success, but you know I see potential. You have heard me compliment his work, far more than I would anyone else’s. Do not for one moment assume that I am acting for my benefit only.”

Irene purses her lips, battle stations ready. “Yes, in refusing to take active steps to help John, you _are._ I would have hoped you were above this sort of behavior.”

Sherlock heads into the living room, Irene on his tail. This is maddening and suddenly he can't take it anymore. “You don’t understand, you can’t possibly. Irene,” he spins around and grabs her by the shoulders, “this is _dull._ All of this is so dreadfully _dull._ It’s one meeting after another. One body of work after another. Signing prints that weren’t even made by me, allowing people to frame my work and hang them on austere walls so others may comment and criticize and take photos of my photos just to say they did.”

He throws himself back onto the couch, one leg draped over the arm.

“It’s exhausting, Irene, utterly ex _hausting._ Photography used to be exciting. It was new, it was fresh, but don’t you see? It’s no longer engaging, it can’t _possibly_ be, because all it is is more money and more fame and yes, I may inspire a teenager to pursue a career, I may reassure art students of their potential, but is that any reason to continue on this way? Is this why I began my career in the first place?”

Irene looks taken aback, which is saying something for someone so typically poised and professional. “Sherlock,” she says, coming to sit next to him. “I... you don’t have to do this. If this is not what you want to do with your life, nobody can blame you for it.”

“You still don’t understand,” Sherlock says, running his hands through his hair in frustration. “I am _nothing_ without my photography. It’s this, this having to manipulate and manage the fame attached to it, that I cannot do. And therein lies the paradox. I need photography, but with it comes these dreary responsibilities and meaningless dances with magazines and curators. I charm and I demand; you know this better than anyone. It is a _game_ , and a game I always win. But it is no longer about art.”

“What are your options, then?” Irene asks quietly.

“I see none.” Sherlock sighs. So infuriatingly boring, all of this. His work is half-hearted now; he has thoughts, too many thoughts, that were once channeled into hours in the darkroom and piles of contact sheets and rolls and rolls of film scattered about his loft and now crammed into the confines of his profession.

Just that. A profession.

The business cards are sitting in his room still, a puzzle to be solved. Something, perhaps, to distract from the boredom that is his professional life – something to make him _want_ to work, to rediscover the energy and stress and thrill that put him behind a camera in the first place.

“As your agent and friend, you do know that I have your best interests at heart.”

Sherlock looks up, momentarily surprised. “Yes.”

“If you want to quit...”

“I don’t. I need the Annenberg.”

“Afterwards, I mean. After the opening, we could announce your –"

“My _what?_ Photography doesn’t just end. One does not simply release a statement and truncate a lifelong career.”

“Yes, I understand that! But nothing is stopping you from simply not publishing your work anymore. We could make arrangements.”

Sherlock scoffs. "Like what?"

"This isn't Hollywood. It's not as if the paparazzi is going to track you down if you fall off the radar a bit. It is entirely possible for you to simply stop showing. Granted, you may receive questions, but we are both fortunate in that your fame is far more dignified than that of celebrities or pop stars. People in your profession are intellects, not idiots. They will understand."

Sherlock doesn't know how to respond, nor how to put any of this into words. This is when he needs his art, _why_ he needs his art, and it is not something that can be solved by a task force, as appreciated as Irene’s efforts truly are.

“Look,” she says. “We will figure something out. Nobody wants you to be miserable. Not even Mycroft,” she adds, before Sherlock can voice the thought. “Why else would he have called me at one in the morning ordering me to ransack your apartment for drugs?” She straightens up and pats him on the knee before standing. “I have to go. Do us all a favor and do _not_ spend the day moping around.”

“Fine,” he says, emphasizing the ‘f’.

She pauses at the threshold. “I’m sorry for pushing this, but you _will_ acquiesce?”

“Yes.”

“To keep a low profile?”

“ _Yes_."

“I will see you tomorrow.” The door shuts.

It’s about noon and Sherlock originally had plans, which did not include being yelled at and subsequently yelling at his agent, but he can be flexible in this at least. He gets dressed quickly, grabs his notebook, and heads out the door, tucking the mysterious business cards carefully into his back pocket on the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave comments and kudos if you'd like to see this continue. I do have future chapters, as well as some miscellaneous scenes, half-written. I also have an entire timeline/plan for essentially the whole fic, which will probably be quite lengthy when all is said and done (spoiler alert: it does end with a Johnlock wedding, hooray!).


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mycroft has an unprecedented reaction to the business cards, Irene is uncomfortable with the male physique, John's Tumblr following revolts against Sherlock, and Victor Trevor helps Sherlock realize how fortunate he is.
> 
> "Mycroft pales suddenly, eyes widening. “Where did you find this?” he demands, and his grip on the cards goes white-knuckled.
> 
> “None of your business,” Sherlock says smoothly, secretly intrigued.
> 
> Mycroft leans forward, clutching the edge of his desk and looking for all the world as if it’s the last life raft on the Titanic. “They appeared to you? Did someone leave them?”
> 
> “I couldn't say.”
> 
> “Sherlock,” Mycroft says very tightly and urgently, “discard them immediately. Destroy them by whatever means possible.” He stands up and begins herding Sherlock to the exit. “Do we have an agreement?”
> 
> Sherlock stumbles over the threshold as his brother comes within an inch of his face. “No, I –”
> 
> “Speak no more of this, and do not talk to John Watson ever again,” says Mycroft, and slams the door."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting this purely because my first chapter was a bit of a flop as I completely forgot to add a summary. Now I've added a proper summary, marked this as a multi-chap, and added appropriate warnings.
> 
> Balthazar refers to Balthazar Restaurant in Lower Manhattan, New York.

_ May 4, cont. _

“Think I’ve finished the Tumblr post,” John says, stretching back and yawning.

“Gimme,” Greg replies, and maneuvers John’s laptop over to his side of the table. He scans the post, which reads:

_ Hi guys! John here. _

_ As some of you may know, I was recently selected for an exhibit at the Annenberg. Unfortunately, there has been a slight change. Sherlock Holmes (yes, THE Sherlock Holmes) has taken it upon himself to take over 60% of the exhibit for reasons unknown. _

_ However, we’ll power through! The good news is that I still get 40%, obviously, and if any of you guys are in the area, I’d love to meet you.  _

_ More publicity and details will be coming out soon, so I’ll keep you posted. In the meantime, follow me on social media (links in my description) for quicker updates, and check out my website if you haven’t already. I’m excited about this portfolio and can’t wait to share it with you all!! _

_ -John _

“Alright?” asks John as Greg comes to the end, making a few minor adjustments, and he’s met with a satisfied nod. “Cool.” He takes back his computer and clicks “post,” then heads to the counter for another coffee.

When he returns, Greg’s finished the rest of the social media posts and has packed away his laptop and charger.

“Is that all, then?” John asks, moving to do the same.

“Actually,” Greg begins awkwardly, then stops. “I, uh. I was wondering if... how’s Harry?”

John gives a glum sigh. “I dunno. Bad, last night. Guess I’d better check my phone, then.” If only he could keep his entire life on ‘do not disturb.’ “Uh oh,” he mutters as he glimpses a long string of texts from Clara. He glances up at Greg, who’s watching with an expression of immense pity, and says, “Wish me luck,” as he begins to thumb through them.

_ harry’s awake. and not happy. _

_ when will you be home??? _

_ she’s already cried and apologized. what phase comes next again? _

_ still crying. now wants to drink. yelled at me for refusing to let her. _

_ now she’s just mad. apparently you and i don’t care about her and we’re just suffocating her. apparently she doesn’t have a problem. can you say denial? _

_ i hope you come home soon, she’s having a meltdown. _

_ she wants to go out. _

_ ok, she’s asleep now. maybe she’ll wake up in a better mood? _

_ she woke up... _

_ this is exhausting. it’s pointless to even try at this point, isn’t it? _

_ sometimes i feel like i’ve lost her. idk if i can keep doing this. _

_ i hate having to babysit my girlfriend. _

_ she’s ok now. text me when you’re done with greg. _

“Not good?” says Greg as John comes to the end.

“Hang on.” John texts back,  _ Sorry, just finished up. How is she now? _ , then passes the phone over to Greg, who scans the messages and grimaces.

“That bad, huh.”

“Oh god,” John groans, burying his face in his hands. “I’m so done with this shit.”

“I'm sorry. I know it's really bad.”

“You can say that again,” mutters John, then shakes his head and grabs his bag to pack up. “Well, I’d better go see what's happening. Talk to you later?”

Greg nods, then holds up his phone. “Call me anything comes up. Good luck.”

“I’ll need it,” John says, and leaves.

* * *

 

Sherlock loathes nothing more than asking for Mycroft’s help, but his research and interviews are so disappointingly uninformative that he has no better alternative. It is with the utmost hesitance-cum-resentment, therefore, that he walks into Mycroft’s study unannounced.

“Oh, dear god,” Mycroft mutters the moment Sherlock enters. He’s holding the phone to his ear, a glass of vodka at his elbow.

“My sentiments exactly,” Sherlock retorts.

Mycroft covers the mouthpiece with one hand and says blandly, “I’m rather occupied at the moment. China won’t run itself, after all.” Sherlock glares at him heatedly and, looking very put upon, he waves his hand nonchalantly and adds, “Do speak to Anthea if it’s a matter of money. Although why you continually seek me out when you’ve quite a flourishing business –”

Sherlock leans over, seizes the phone, and says succinctly, “Do your own dirty work, you incompetent fools,” then hangs up rather aggressively.

Mycroft looks as unfazed as ever. “My, how unprofessional of you.”

Deciding to cut right to the chase, Sherlock takes a deep breath and confesses, “I have... a question.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “A question.” He draws out the syllables as long as possible and Sherlock wants very much to punch him. “Sherlock Holmes has a question. Are you quite well?”

“Will you help me or not?” Sherlock asks through gritted teeth, already regretting his decision. 

“Do my ears deceive me, or did my precious younger brother just request my assistance?”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock starts, “if you –”

“I admit I am quite stunned,” Mycroft continues, leaning forward in his desk and looking disgustingly self-satisfied. “Quite stunned and very pleased, if I am being honest.”

“Yes, but nobody wants you to be.”

Again with the smug eyebrow raise. “Throwing another tantrum, are we?”

“For god’s sake,” Sherlock cries impatiently, and shoves the cards into Mycroft’s hands. “After thorough investigation, I still cannot find a  _ clue _ as to the signet on the back of each. I ask you only because I have nobody better to ask, and as someone who possesses exorbitant knowledge on things of this nature, I was rather hoping that you could shed light on the situation. I presume it is of political or perhaps familial significance.”

Mycroft pales suddenly, eyes widening. “Where did you find this?” he demands, and his grip on the cards goes white-knuckled.

“None of your business,” Sherlock says smoothly, secretly intrigued.

Mycroft leans forward, clutching the edge of his desk and looking for all the world as if it’s the last life raft on the Titanic. “They appeared to you? Did someone leave them?”

“I couldn't say.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft says very tightly and urgently, “discard them immediately. Destroy them by whatever means possible.” He stands up and begins herding Sherlock to the exit. “Do we have an agreement?”

Sherlock stumbles over the threshold as his brother comes within an inch of his face. “No, I –”

“Speak no more of this, and do not talk to John Watson ever again,” says Mycroft, and slams the door.

* * *

 

Sherlock, of course, refuses to listen. Instead, he goes straight home and pores through the internet, displaying the business cards on the mantelpiece defiantly.

Irene drops by at a quarter after three. “I'm coming in,” she calls before unlocking the door and barging into the kitchen, where she stops still. “Oh my god, put clothes on, will you?”

Sherlock gestures to the sheet he’s wrapped around himself. “I got bored.”

“Go out and take photographs if you're bored! Don't disrobe!” she sputters.

“Very well, if it’s really so distressing. Though why it should be is beyond me.”

“It's – I don't want to see you half  _ naked _ , thank you very much.” 

Realization dawns and Sherlock grins. “You're uncomfortable with the male physique.”

Irene glares at him, holding up a manila folder to shield her eyes. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“You, blatantly lesbian Irene Adler, cannot stomach the thought of a naked man.”

“I wouldn't insult my subterfuge. You're among a select few who have any knowledge of my sexuality, and I'll thank you to keep your mouth shut.”

Sherlock stands there and smirks.

“Put some goddamn clothes on,” Irene orders when he doesn’t budge, striding into his room and emerging moments later to throw a pair of boxers, shorts, and a T shirt at his head. “No!” she shouts as he threatens to change in the middle of the living room, and hides behind her folder again. “Bedroom. Go. Now. The sheet has already ridden down enough and I’d like at least some parts left to the imagination, thanks.”

Amused, Sherlock obeys.

When he returns appropriately clothed, Irene has managed to collect herself and is already typing furiously on her laptop. 

“What's in the folder?” Sherlock asks, coming to sit beside her. 

“Mailouts I need you to look over,” she says distractedly, frowning at the screen. “Have you read this? There's a viral post on Tumblr.”

“About me? Why does it matter?”

Irene rolls her eyes. “No, it's got nothing to do with you, you self centered idiot. It's about John. I guess Greg has taken to social media to broaden his audience.”

“I don't see why that should concern me.”

“It doesn't,” says Irene as she moves to another tab, “but  _ this _ does.”

Sherlock grimaces at the screen, which is now featuring a photo of him with a red line through it. “‘I hate Sherlock Holmes,’” he reads, then snorts. “What a clever description.”

“Don't you see the issue here? It wasn't about you versus John, at least not in a political sense, but now his fans are amassing and rallying against  _ you _ . Granted, they're mostly art students, and there aren't many, but you've seen what social media can do at this point. They're saying that the reason John’s taking up less than half of the Annenberg exhibit is because you have it out for him. They're painting you as the villain.”

“Why would I care?”

Irene looks at him incredulously. “This is your living,” she spells out slowly. “Are you stupid? Do you seriously not care if sales drop, if you lose support?”

“Quite honestly, no,” Sherlock replies. “As far as I am concerned, it's just as well. My truest fans will commend my creative genius rather than who they think I am or what they think I've done. And if I were to lose them, well, would it really be much of a loss? I stake virtually no emotional value in their approval or lack thereof.”

Irene is looking at him as though he's half mad. It's an expression he's accustomed to, and he takes the opportunity to get a glass of water. After shutting the faucet off, he leans against the island and takes a sip, then places the tumbler by his elbow and crosses his arms.

“Come now, is it really so shocking? When, in our entire professional relationship, have I ever given the impression that I care about such trivialities?”

“You defy all logic, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told.”

“You are an agent’s worst nightmare.”

Sherlock inclines his head. “Thank you.”

Irene eyes him for a moment longer, then heaves a long-suffering sigh and proceeds, “Fine. Emotional stakes or no, this could potentially cause trouble, and I would be remiss if I didn’t take action against it.”

“Perhaps you need a break,” Sherlock suggests, coming to sit on the stool beside her and craning his neck to see what she’s glowering at this time. “What’s that?”

“Nothing concerning you,” she says sharply, and closes the window, folding her hands and looking at him imperiously. “I don’t take breaks.”

Sherlock thoughtfully calculates the odds of Irene yielding under his interrogation should he continue bothering her about the mysterious Google Chrome window and opts to keep his mouth shut, though he did catch a glimpse of an inbox and half of what could have been a photograph of a happy couple.  _ Online dating, _ his mind helpfully supplies. Intriguing, but not pressing. 

“Snap out of it,” Irene snaps, shutting her laptop with unnecessary force. She's avoiding eye contact; she is, Sherlock realizes,  _ embarrassed _ – a peculiar and rare reaction for his agent. 

“Take a break,” Sherlock repeats, taking pity and reverting back to the previous topic. “I dare say you deserve it.”

Irene eyes him for a moment, then shakes her head and says definitively, “No.”

Recognizing a lost cause, Sherlock drinks the rest of the water before getting to his feet. “I’m going out.”

Irene raises an eyebrow. “No you’re not.”

“Excuse me?”

“You still have to look over the mailouts, and we need to have a chat about a couple things.”

Sherlock looks heavenward. “Oh god, where does it end?” 

“Stop being a drama queen,” Irene scoffs. “First of all, we still need to come to a consensus about what to do with the John situation. Secondly, Mycroft has a few questions for you which he apparently preferred to be asked vicariously. Thirdly, are you planning to meet Victor Trevor?”

“There is no John situation, I don’t care about his questions, and my social life is none of your business,” Sherlock lists offhandedly, and reaches for a pair of shoes.

“Mycroft wants to make sure you haven’t done anything about the business cards,” Irene says from behind him. He pauses, fingers entangled in the laces of his sneakers. “I don’t know what that means, but I’m given to understand that it’s a matter of safety.”

“It’s unimportant,” Sherlock replies, and resumes tying his shoes.

“Does it have to do with –”

“ _ No, _ ” Sherlock cuts her off emphatically. “It has nothing to do with the drugs.”

“Does it –”

Sherlock straightens up and grabs his wallet and keys. “If you know anything about me, you know that I’m hardly one for a friendly game of one-sided guesswork. Now if you don’t mind.”

Irene acquiesces, if only for now – Sherlock knows his agent well enough to know that this is absolutely not the last time he’ll hear of this – and steps aside so Sherlock can breeze through the door. “Drive safe!” are her half-sarcastic, motherly parting words as she waves him out of the driveway.

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

* * *

 

Harry refuses to say a word when John drops by, and truth be told he doesn’t make much of an effort.

“If you’re going to be this way –” he says tightly.

“I am,” she replies, folding her arms and adopting a mulish expression.

“You are forty-three years old. You really want to throw your life away on this?” It’s the same argument, the same statements, and he knows it’s a losing battle.

She looks at him evenly, openly, for the first time. “Do I?” she asks.

“Dad –”

Her eyes flash and before he can say anything she’s manhandling him towards the door.

“Harry, I –”

Wordlessly, she turns the knob, pushes the door open, and shoves him roughly onto the front porch, slamming the door behind him.

“You can’t do this to me again!” he yells. There is no indication that she heard him.

* * *

 

_ May 5 _

Sherlock wakes up the next morning full of dread and anticipation in equal measures and reaches immediately for his phone.

_ You needn’t come by today. Busy. SH _

That’s all very well, but we need to talk.

_ About what? What could we possibly have to discuss that you haven’t brought to my attention already? You may be good at your job, but you are irritatingly thorough. SH _

We have to keep an eye on the Annenberg situation.

_ What situation? As far as I am concerned, it’s quite simply over and done with. SH _

I know Greg. I’m sure he’ll retaliate. He isn’t one to back down, and like it or not you’ve rather poked the dragon.

_ Greg? SH _

Lestrade. John’s agent. 

_ Ah. I thought his name was Gary. Never mind. SH _

_ What of the blog you insisted on showing me yesterday? SH _

That’s a separate problem altogether. I don’t know what Greg’s planning, but he certainly isn’t responsible for that. 

_ Irene, may I remind you that I am the one signing your paychecks, and I am the one who calls the shots in our working relationship, so to speak. SH _

Please.

_ Problem? SH _

Whatever. When will you be home?

_ I haven’t a clue. Depends. SH _

Depends on what?

_ Nothing. I’ll talk to you later. SH _

Hoping that this  will be enough to buy him at least a few hours of uninterrupted time, he texts Mycroft next.

_ Please do not interfere today. SH _

Whyever not? M

_ You wouldn’t understand. SH _

I believe I understand perfectly well. You’re pressing further inquiries about the business cards. Against which I have cautioned you, several times, and to no avail. Victor Trevor does not have any answers. M

_ The only person who definitively does have answers refuses to provide them. If you were to have a change of heart, I assure you I would cancel this meeting. SH _

He does not receive a response within ten seconds, which means that Mycroft has given up. Excellent.

After a quick breakfast of cold cereal and a banana – he has plans for a smoked salmon tartine at Balthazar later – he hails a cab, with mounting trepidation, to the address Victor had emailed him a month ago. It’s a small, greasy hole-in-the-wall pizza delivery place that would make someone of Sherlock’s refined upbringing gag and call in ten troops of cleaners, except for the fact that Sherlock is all too familiar with this world.

He goes to the back door, as instructed, and after hesitating for a beat, knocks. The door swings open with a great rusty creak, revealing Victor Trevor.

Sherlock almost doesn't recognize him. The transformation is as much emotional as it is physical; gone is his snobby demeanor and the blazing look in his eyes that always struck Sherlock as that of a wild animal. Now, he is a humbled man, worn down and almost achingly vulnerable.

“Sherlock,” Victor says, raising his head defiantly to meet Sherlock’s gaze.

Against his will, Sherlock flashes back to the last time they parted. Police lights illuminating the buildings around them, Mycroft and Irene wearing matching grim expressions, their mouths drawn tight; he had been only aware enough to watch dimly as Victor’s drug-addled body was dragged to another ambulance, as the gurney unfolded and his brother and agent helped maneuver him onto it. He realizes, only now, that when they both hit rock bottom, it was Victor who had nobody.

“Come in,” Victor offers after Sherlock can only blink.

“Sorry,” says Sherlock, shaking himself out of it and following Victor into a small back room. The scent of pizza grease and low class is suffocating.

“Do you want a drink?” Victor asks.

“Ah.” Sherlock eyes the cheap plastic cups and tap from which they ostensibly get their water. “No, thank you.”

Victor nods and sits down at a round table, gesturing for Sherlock to do the same. “It’s good to see you.”

“I...” For once, Sherlock finds himself at a loss for words.

Victor picks up on this and gives a wry smile. “I expect you can’t say the same for me.”

“I’m sorry,” and he is genuinely surprised to discover that he is. “I’m in a different... place, now. It’s... different.”

Victor nods. “I know. I’m happy for you.”

“Are you?”

Pause. “You said you needed my help?”

“Actually, yes.” Sherlock switches into business mode, praying that Victor will do the same. Lesson learned: when meeting up with ex-drug dealers with whom you have a somewhat confusing history, skip the small talk and get straight to the point. “I supposed you might...” Finding himself unsure once again, Sherlock shakes his head and reaches into his pocket, laying the cards out on the cheap vinyl tablecloth. “These... came to me.” He points to the three M’s. “I am having difficulty discerning the origins of this.”

"And why do you think I'd know anything about this?" Victor asks, tracing over the mysterious symbol with a callused forefinger.

Sherlock eyes the greasy apron, the black under eye bags, the track marks just visible where Victor's shirt sleeve has ridden up. For a moment, he almost can't breathe.  _ This could have been you. This almost  _ was _ you _ .  Then he shakes himself out of his reverie and replies, "I admit I am grasping at straws. However, Mycroft's reaction suggests that the crest has links to some manner of sensitive conflict or discussion, possibly of a legal nature."

"And since I've been in trouble with the law more than once, you think I know about it," Victor says. There’s a bitterness and unspoken accusation there that puts Sherlock off for a moment before he continues as calmly as he can muster in such an uncomfortable situation,

"It would appear so, yes. Perhaps you came across it during your..." ‘Imprisonment’ seems too harsh a word, even for Sherlock, and he lets the sentence trail awkwardly. 

Victor gives a resigned sigh. "No, I've never seen it before."

"Well then. Thank you for your time.” Sherlock gathers the cards up quickly and shoves them back in his pocket, itching to escape. The air is stifling, and so are the memories rising to the surface and threatening to flood the entire room.

Victor nods and adjusts his hat. "Goodbye," he says, getting up with a wince. He must see Sherlock staring at him and gestures ruefully. "Chronic back pain. Can't be assed to look after it, so here we are.” The bitterness is gone from his voice, replaced by a sort of hard sadness difficult to categorize.

Sherlock nods and has absolutely no idea what to say. Instead, he clears his throat, considers and then decides against shaking Victor's hand, and turns to walk out of the building. 

"Sherlock?" Victor calls as Sherlock reaches the threshold a few steps later.

"Yes?"

"Good luck."

Sherlock hesitates, one hand on the doorknob. "Thank you," he finally decides upon, and gives a small nod. Victor returns it. 

The second he steps into fresh air, Sherlock heaves a deep, gasping breath, as though he's just undergone a great physical ordeal or has awoken from a nightmare. Feeling quite weak, he leans against the side of the building and breathes shakily for several moments. The brick is rough under his hands and warm spring rain is beginning to fall.

He cannot fully explain why this experience has shaken him so. Seeing his previous art rival and addict, and gathering tangible proof of just how far the man has fallen, is a stark and painful reminder of the path he could have so easily followed. If it weren't for Irene and, he admits begrudgingly, his brother, he isn't altogether sure that he wouldn't be in the same situation. Nearly bankrupt, weathered by jail, body wrecked from years of self-inflicted abuse, exhausted in a way impossible to alleviate with slumber. 

Photography saved him, he realizes. When he chose creative pursuits over drugs – when he felt the first shreds of self loathing as his fingers spasmed too much to press the shutter and his mind was too broken to focus the camera – when he tumbled to the ground in a drug den next to Victor, shattering a brand new lens, and felt the sting of tears and the prick of a needle and the rush of cocaine and hated himself so very, very desperately – he was saved. Sherlock is not a sentimental man; introspection is not within his character. But in this moment, all he can think is  _ thank god _ . 

It's another ten minutes before he manages to collect himself enough to brush dust off of his clothes and return to the main street to hail a cab. Even then, as he sits in the back seat and watches the city roll by, he thinks.

Irene is already at his apartment when he arrives. She's pacing across the living room, muttering to herself and frenziedly jotting things down in her notebook, and barely acknowledges Sherlock when he enters. "Ah, excellent," she jumps right in. "You certainly took your time. I spoke with –"

Sherlock strides across the room and hugs her. Though he will never be able to say the words, he is deeply, deeply indebted to this woman who, he suspects, is the closest to a friend he has. 

"Oh my god, are you okay?" Irene asks, though she hugs him back in a quick, efficient manner. "Do you have cancer? Are you dying? You aren't... unsafe, are you?"

Sherlock pulls away, feeling about ten times more awkward than he did at his meeting with Victor, which is saying something. He turns his back and clears his throat. "Do calm down," he says, perhaps a bit too loud in his haste to skate over his uncharacteristic show of affection. "I just... deemed it overdue."

Irene raises an eyebrow. "That is the first time in  _ nine _ years that you've hugged me."

"Yes, well. Consider yourself lucky. I have never so much as shaken my brother's hand."

"I will. Anyway. Shall we proceed?"

Sherlock inclines his head, grateful for her reaction; had she fixated any more on his strange behavior he would have likely fled or done something else similarly embarrassing. "Please," he says, and as Irene launches into a rant about press and emails crashing and Wallis, he thinks he has never been so thankful nor so fortunate in his life. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I won't be posting for awhile now, seeing as two chapters are up and thus far I haven't much of an audience. However, I do have a lot in the works for this fic, so rest assured that I'm working on it. I'm thinking bi-weekly updates for this one, but we'll play it by ear.
> 
> Please leave kudos and comments to let me know what you think! Thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Kudos and comments always appreciated :)


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